The Naked Year (10 page)

Baudek put Natalya's hand on his eyes, quietly kissed her palm. Natalya was sitting bent over, her plaits cascaded down–again she sensed keenly that the Revolution for her was bound up with joy, violent joy, the kind which misery accompanies, wormwood misery. A fable. As in the fable Uvek, as in the fable the lands beyond the river, as in the fable Semyon Ivanovich, with the beard of Marx, the water-sprite Marx, evil, like Kashchei. The wheelbarrows, the huts, the earth, Uvek, the river, the distance–gleamed, burned, shone like scorching hot shreds. Around it was fiery, deserted and silent. The sun on its course was moving towards there, little by little, out from under the wheel-barrows, out of the holes crawled the diggers, dressed any-old-how, in torn trousers, pants made of sacks, covered with bast matting, they yawned, frowned, drank water out of buckets, rolled cigars.

One sat down opposite Baudek, lit up, scratched his open hairy chest, said unhurriedly:

“Let's get started, Florich!… The horse should be harnessed. Michaelo, presumably, has fallen down into the ravine.”

Towards evening the grasshoppers began to chirr. Natalya was in the kitchen gardens, she carried buckets, watered the beds, the sweat came out on her forehead in drops, and her body, straining under the weight of the bucket, ached sweetly, with unused strength. Drops of water splashed onto her bare legs and the coolness brought relief. Towards evening in the cherry grove a redstart called. Lazily, the last bees were flying about in the golden air, heading for the apiary. She walked into the cherry grove, ate the shiny cherries with juice like blood. In the bushes grew bluebells and belladona–she plucked by habit bunches of flowers. In her room, in the attic, in the maids' room she sorted out in the dressing table old silk pieces, inhaled the smell of the silk, wax and pungent ancient perfume. She saw her room with new eyes: in the room was a green dusk, and over the floor walked light shimmering shadows, the white walls accepted them in senile ecstacy, easily and simply. She stood over the washbasin, splashing herself with cold water.

The sun was going away in a broad yellow sunset.

The scorching hot day faded in a yellow dusk. At seven the bell rang for supper, and in the pantry for half an hour it was noisy, they crowded around the pot of porridge, poured milk from small buckets into plates, then drank tea, taking glasses round to all the rooms. On the terrace, overgrown with almonds and thuya, was a guest, a sectarian–the lad Donat from the neighboring farmstead, with an apostolic beard, all in white and in forty-pound boots with metal soles, he had dropped in to talk about horses. The lad Donat refused tea, he drank milk. On the terrace with him sat Semyon Ivanovich. The sky was dying in fiery ruins of the clouds. In the undergrowth near the terrace a redstart whistled lonely and bitterly:–vee-tee, vee-teess!

Semyon Ivanovich, in a blouse, also an old man, perched on the gate like a young man, his arms crossed and leaning his head against the column. Donat was sitting by the table, calmly, erect, one leg on the other.

“You don't admit of wars?” asked Semyon Ivanovich, as always dryly and imperceptibly maliciously.

“We don't need war, sir.”

“But on your farmstead, I'm told, they found a butchered Cheremiss and, they say, you shelter horse thieves?”

“I don't know what events you're pleased to speak of,” answered Donat calmly. “Over the steppes wander many wolves, it's impossible not to beware of them. We came to these places in Catherine's reign and live as we lived thirty years ago, like a hundred, we fend for ourselves, in our own way. Thus we need no governments, or of course, soldiers.

This Petersburg, sir, is like lichen, sir. I dare say, the people themselves will live better without supervision, will find time to rest and meditate. In a group, sir, the people, perhaps, will live a thousand years.”

“Well, and horse stealing?” –becoming just noticeably irritated, asked Semyon Ivanovich, interrupting Donat.

“I don't know what events you're talking about. No one saw this. But I think, if they catch the horse thief–they'll kill him. And they'll kill him I suppose, with cruelty, sir. The Tatars sometimes catch horse thieves–they bury them in hay ricks, trussed up and burn them alive. Ours is a cruel life, s-sir.”

The fiery ruins grew dark, like coals, and were covered with ash. Outside the sheep began to bleat and a whip crack. The redstart grew silent. In the dining room they lit a candle, through the open door they attracted the moths. The grasshoppers began to chirr. A wind began to blow and it brought not the scorching heat but relief. It grew dark quickly, and in the distance the summer lightning flashed.

“There'll be a storm,” Donat said, grew quiet, not moving, and began to talk about something else: “I look at your farm, sir. No use. It's bad. Very bad. No skill. The youths aren't interested. No skill, sir, no love. Useless.”

“We'll learn,” answered Semyon Ivanovich dryly. “Not immediately.”

“The land to the peasants, it's God's will.”

Irina came out onto the terrace, with a candle, in a white dress. Irina placed the candle next to Donat. Donat looked attentively at her, Irina did not lower her eyes, the light was falling obliquely, Irina's pupils flashed like red-purplish-scarlet little lights.

“Semyon Ivanovich, the comrades are holding a short meeting in the reading room,” said Irina. “Comrade Yuzik isn't there. I'll be with a guest.”

Semyon Ivanovich got up. Donat said after him:

“Were you talking about horse thieves, sir? Horse thieves sometimes come along, that's true. We live, like a hundred years ago. But then you arrived from Petersburg, when it had gone to lichen, sir. Yes, sir. Time is cramped. Our Petersburg has long been finished. We lived without it and will survive, sir.”

“Excuse me, I'll be right back,” said Semyon Ivanovich, and went out.

Irina sat down in his place, against the pillar. They sat in silence. Again a light wind began to blow and brought relief. From the south came a heavy cloud, gleaming, it rumbled evilly. It grew dark, black, it was silent and close. By the candle the moths rustled. In the drawing room Andrei began to play the piano. Suddenly in the distance beyond the estate someone whistled twice in a short bandit's whistle, very likely through his fingers. Both Donat and Irina pricked up their ears. Donat looked intently into the darkness and lowered his head listening hard. Irina stood up, stood a while on the steps of the terrace and descended into the darkness. Soon she returned, walked past into the house and came out again in a raincoat and, barefoot, again went onto the terrace. The rain began to drizzle in large drops, several gusts of wind surged, the leaves began to rustle autumnally, the candle light fluttered, it was as if the stone columns and the floor began to rock, and the candle went out.

Semyon Ivanovich walked through the dark rooms into the reading room. In the reading room two candles were burning, on the settees, on the windows, on the floor in free poses sat the anarchists, they smoked, all–both men and women, in blue blouses. By the round table stiffly stood Comrade Konstantin. Semyon Ivanovich sat down at the table and picked up a pencil.

“What's the matter, Comrade?” asked Semyon Ivanovich.

From the corner, from Anna, answered Kirill:

“We want to resolve a basic question. Comrade Konstantin, going away to the village, took the new puttees out of Comrade Nikolai's drawer, without notification, didn't return the puttees and in general concealed this fact. The puttees, it goes without saying, are not the property of Comrade Nikolai, but they were being used by him. How is one to qualify this fact?”

“I deem this to be robbery,” said Nikolai.

“Comrades! Wait a while! Not like this!” retorted Semyon Ivanovich vexedly and began to drum with his slender fingers on the table. “It is first necessary to establish the fact and the principle…”

Semyon Ivanovich spoke at great length, then spoke Kirill, Konstantin, Nikolai–and, finally, the question got utterly confused. It turned out that there were precedents, Konstantin and Nikolai had an argument and that the puttees were needed by Konstantin, but were Nikolai's extras. Through the window the thunder rumbled, the lightning flashed, the wind and rain howled at will. The moths flew near the candles orphan-like, dying. Along the walls and shelves dimly gleamed the backs of books and the panes. It got very smoky, from the shag. Finally Semyon Ivanovich spoke again–about how where there is genuine brotherliness, the question of theft cannot arise, but, on the other hand–this is not a basic decision–and he finished:

“I declare the meeting closed, comrades. I want to impart to you another fact. Comrade Andrei is marrying Comrade Irina. I think this is sensible. Anybody have anything to say?”

Nobody said anything. Everyone stood up noisily and began to disperse.

Andrei, having got up at dawn, carted water in the morning, and then all day cleaned up the dung, becoming exhausted with the heat, sweating, with tired eyes. After dinner until the bell he did not go to sleep–he sat in the drawing room and played the piano, and, it seemed, in his music were heard both the buzzing of horseflies, and the desert scorching steppe silence, of the deserts, scorching heats. After the bell he again carted dung, and in the evening again played. When Semyon Ivanovich passed through the dining room after the meeting, Andrei came up to him again and, touching his shoulders, said:

“Semyon Ivanovich!… I thought… Irina. I and she…”

Semyon Ivanovich freed his shoulder, moving away Andrei's arm with his own cold fingers, and vexedly-tiredly answered:

“You've already spoken, Comrade Andrei!… I heard! This is irregular. Both you and Irina are sensible people. Sentimental romanticism is complete nonsense. Has the lad gone away?”

On the terrace in the columns the wind howled, the lightning flashed by the minute, but the thunder was already thundering elsewhere–the storm was passing. The murk was thick, black and damp. Lightning flashed and lit up Donat, he was sitting in the same pose as Semyon Ivanovich had left him in, erect, one hand placed on the table and one leg on the other.

“Excuse me, I was held up,” said Semyon Ivanovich.

“So, goodbye. It's time!” Donat said and got up.

“Where to in the storm? Stay the night!”

“It's not the first time. Tomorrow I'm up at dawn. Ploughing! I'll go through the field.”

Soon Donat was riding out of the estate. The rain had passed, the lightning elsewhere blinked weakly, it was a thundery summer night. Beyond the estate Donat stopped the horse, placed his palm on his eyes, all in white, mounted on a black steed. He peered at the phosphorescent reflections. Having paused awhile, he inserted two fingers into his mouth and whistled shortly. He listened carefully. Nobody replied. Then Donat turned off the road and at a steady trot rode off across the empty field.

Late at night, when the storm had already died down, Baudek and Natalya came up to the excavations. By the huts they lit a campfire, dried themselves out and heated water. The campfire burned brightly, crackled, casting out sparks, and, perhaps because of it the night seemed closer, darker and more distinct. Some were lying by the campfire, some were sitting, drying their shirts.

“And the dew on that night is melifluous and health-giving, the grass has a special, curative power. And on that night, lads, the fern flowers. But you have to go carefully into this wood, lads, because on that night the trees move from place to place… How?…”

They fell silent.

Someone stood up to have a look at the pot, a rough shadow crawled over the mountain, fell into the ravine. Another picked up a coal, and, passing it from one hand to another, lit up. For a minute it was very quiet, and in the quietness the crickets were heard distinctly. Beyond the campfire in the steppe the summer lightning flashed, its dead light came into being and vanished ghost-like–and the summer lightning flashed not where the storm had moved on, but from the south–another storm must have been coming. A roguish breeze began to blow, it wafted the dampness–it became clear that a second storm was coming.

Natalya and Baudek did not go up to the fire, they sat down on wheelbarrows.

“And I have come to you, lads–you have no business digging these places. Because this place, Uvek, is mysterious, and it always smells of wormwood. In Stepan Timofeevich's time there stood a tower here right on the high ground, and in that tower a Persian princess was locked up, and the Persian princess, of indescribable beauty, turned into a magpie–she flew over the steppes, disturbed the people, having become wild, like a wolf, she brought the darkness… This is an ancient fact. Ataman Stepan Timofeevich found out about it, came to the tower, looked through the window–the Princess was lying down, asleep–he did not realize this was her body lying there, and that her soul was not in it–it was flying, the soul, as a magpie over the earth at that hour. The Ataman summoned the priest, he made the sign of the cross on the windows with the holy water of life… Well, since that time the restless soul has flown about Uvek, it cries, it cannot unite with its body, it beats against the stone walls. The tower collapsed. Stepan Timofeevich is chained to Mount Kapkaz, and she still languishes–cries… This place is silent, mysterious. The girls at times jump naked for the Persian beauty, at night, at the solstice, in this season, but this is not known… And so the wormwood grows here, and may it grow.”